Thirty-eight thousand years later, There Is Only War
by tombouric
Summary: Following a night of drunken celebration after a successful raid on a Talon stronghold, Tracer had foolishly taken a bet to see how far into the future she could transport herself. Unfortunately, she can go very far indeed, into the Grim Darkness of the 41st Millennium, where there is only War. Note: it might be better to read my other Tracer story first. Also, Commissar Tracer.
1. Chapter 1

Surrounded by the ruins of a hive city, Tracer ran.

She ran because she was pretty certain that if she stopped the demon that was chasing her would eat her.

 _What have you gotten yourself into now_ , she thought to herself, quickly followed by _buggerbuggerbuggerbugger_ when she heard the monster roar close behind her.

Why the hell did she take the bet? She had been drunk at the time, it was true, but she sure as hell knew better than to see how far forward in time she could travel.

How much had she drunk, anyway?

She vaulted a fallen girder and slid under another. Her anchor couldn't take so much time traveling stress in one go and so needed to recharge if it were to serve its primary purpose, keeping her in one spot in time.

Of course, nobody could have predicted that she'd be chased by a _demon._ It didn't stop her from cursing them anyway.

She ran into a ruined building and slammed the door shut behind her. It was made of heavy metal, and its weight made her use more force than she anticipated. Maybe that could hold it?

Its sword sheared straight through the door.

Tracer ran away from it. Thankfully the walls behind her had been completely demolished, so it was relatively simple to leave.

As she ran down the street past a ruined tank she could feel the furnace heat of the demon behind her. It was close. _Too close_.

She turned the corner and nearly ran into a wall. She looked up at it and realised it was a person bigger than she had ever seen entirely clad in grey metal armour. Was it an Omnic?

It raised a gun bigger than her entire torso and pointed it directly at her head.

"Imperial citizen or heretic?", it demanded.

At that point the demon had rounded the corner, and the Omnic shoved past her.

"Daemon!"

It raised its gun and fired a salvo at the monster's chest and head. The demon screamed as the bullets exploded on it, tearing away huge chunks the size on Winston's fist of it's flesh, but it pressed forwards. The Omnic dropped its gun and drew a sword that it wielded like a dagger. A flurry of blows later its knife was embedded in the demon's throat, which loosed one final scream before disappearing in an eruption of brimstone.

In one smooth motion the Omnic picked up its gun and pointed right back at a stunned Tracer. From its body language it was clear that she need only put one toe out of line to get a bullet in her head. She knew better than to refuse when her battery was still recharging and raised her hands.

"Cheers love?"

Unamused, the giant smacked the side of her head with its armoured fist. The last words she heard before falling unconscious were from the giant itself.

"Brother Varneus to Command, inform the Inquisitor that this planet has been corrupted by Chaos. Emperor protect us."

Brother-Librarian Gorian regarded the sleeping mortal with curiosity and no small amount of puzzlement. This woman that Battle-Brother Varneus had recovered was not a Chaos worshipper, her skin and psychic aura unblemished by any stain of corruption. She certainly wasn't a native to this planet; she looked too healthy to have survived an Imperial Crusade. She wore no uniform he could recognise, so a deserter from one of the Imperial Guard regiments assigned to cleanse Freudor VI was unlikely. He turned to Captain Borealar.

"What do you think, Brother-Captain?"

Borealar gritted his teeth and held his silence. Gorian knew better than to rush him. Captain Borealar had earned much renown amongst the Relictors for his cool head, and his well-thought out decisions that had more than once saved Astarte lives. Finally, he spoke.

"She could be one of the Inquisitor's agents, sent to claim the relic before us."

Gorian mulled the implications of such an eventuality.

"It would absolve her from her promise of rehabilitating us."

His comrade snorted in derision at Gorian's mild tone.

"It would mean less witnesses, and a cleaner conscience. If an Inquisitor could fathom such a thing."

His Brother's hatred for the Ecclesiarchy and its various branches had not lessened over the years, and his distrust of the Inquisition had only grown since their Excommunication. If Gorian had been honest with himself he would have admitted an even greater hatred, but if he and his Brothers were to be welcomed back into the Imperium their antagonism would have to be put aside for the time being.

"Gorian, what can you glean from her?"

"It would be easier if she were awake. A conscious mind is less chaotic and possesses greater clarity than a sleeping one."

Borealar grunted. He motioned at Apothecary Dekvar who was ministering to her. Dekvar had saved many Astarte lives in his time, and had performed the Emperor's Peace too many times to count, but for all his expertise he was woefully underequipped to treat a mortal. Still, he tried his best.

"How long until she can wake?"

The Apothecary stood up, his white armour shining in the cold sunlight. Unlike most of his Battle-Brothers only his left shoulder plate bore his Chapters colours. The rest of his armour was painted white to mark him out as a healer as well as a warrior. Gorian bore a similar heraldry, but instead of white his armour bore the blue of a psyker.

"Although Brother Varneus was able to pierce the skin of her temple, he had managed to kept her skull intact, and in all other respects she seems healthy for a mortal. We can wait for her to wake naturally, or I can stimulate her senses now to bring her out of unconsciousness. If I do so however she will experience a notable pain in her head and may be less compliant."

Borealar grunted, whether in approval or in annoyance it was hard to tell.

"Wake her. We've lost enough time on this enigma, and the sooner we can return to our primary objective the better."

"Very well, Captain." Dekvar replied, before bending down to administer the Rite of Rousing.

Tracer could feel the pull of the abyss again. Ever since her first and final flight in the _Slipstream_ she had always been in fear of it. Even when Winston had finally managed to keep her anchored in her present whenever she dashed forwards or backwards she could see it behind her, mocking her attempts to escape. It could penetrate her innermost thoughts, turning her dreams into nightmares. It was the emptiness of space, nothingness in its purest form, and she would taste her nanosecond in its cold embrace for the rest of her life.

Except this time, she heard whispers. She couldn't make out what they were saying, but even they were preferable to what was chasing her.

Silently she called out to them. _I am here_ , she cried, and she felt the voices approach. They sounded inhuman, a chorus of chittering things that had never seen sunlight. Too late she realised her mistake. These things wouldn't help her; they wanted her. They rushed her, horrible deformed monstrosities of every stripe. They sported colours she had never seen, bent and changed into forms that hurt her eyes. Every time the horde of impossibilities screamed out it sent molten nails tearing through her sanity.

She felt their claws all across her body, and terrible pain coursed through her veins, trying to reach her brain. Before they could reach it a flame kindled there and began sweeping away the monsters from her. It burned, but she welcomed it as it purified her. Then it receded.

The monsters where still there, but they were cautious, and she had learnt what they were. She wouldn't be such easy prey next time. She felt herself hurtling away from her nightmare, and back into the waking world.

When she opened her eyes she feared that she hadn't left at all. Three huge behemoths glared at her with baleful red eyes, hands resting on various weapons. They were in a ruin of sorts, surrounded by tracks of dust that lead to more crumbling buildings. The blue one spoke first.

"We almost lost her, Captain. If I hadn't intervened when I did…"

The grey one silenced him with a wave.

"If she had died we'd have to ask the Inquisitor for the reason of this betrayal, not her lapdog. Now, do what you need to do."

He left the room they were in, accompanied by the white one. The blue one watched them go, before turning back to her. He removed his helmet, revealing an aquiline face framed by long black hair marred by a single scar that stretched from his bottom lip to his right cheek bone. _Not an Omnic, then._

"I apologise for my Brother's behaviour. He has never learnt to forgive his enemies."

Panic filled her. What had she done to them to make her their enemy? She checked her anchor's battery; to her dismay it wasn't fully powered yet, so she couldn't rely on it to make an escape.

He had seen her eyes flicker and followed her gaze down to the anchor that was strapped to her front. Even at low power it glowed dully.

"I am no Techmarine, but I know non-Imperial technology when I see it. Tell me, what does it do, and from which Xenos did you steal it from?"

She was about to ask him what he was talking about when she felt a steely grip on her mind, forcing her to answer truthfully.

"It's an anchor that keeps me from going forward and backwards in time at random. It also allows me a limited control of my own time travelling capabilities. Winston made it for me."

She hadn't meant to say that. Who was this person? What could he do?

She remembered the fire in her dream. Quickly, before he could force her to answer another question, she blurted out;

"You were the fire, right?"

He didn't move for a second, then he nodded.

"That was a very foolish thing you did there, especially for an unsanctioned psyker. Did your master never tell you about the dangers of the Warp?"

Again the steel forced her to answer, while stifling any response from her.

"I don't have a master."

This surprised the man. Again he asked her a question;

"What is your name?"

"Lena Oxton. Tracer works too."

"Where are you from?"

"The United Kingdom. Earth."

Gorian could barely suppress a spasm of shock across his face. He had little idea what this United Kingdom was, but he understood the last part clearly enough.

Earth.

Holy Terra!

He had some awareness that Terra's name was once Earth, before the Age of Strife. Not even the Emperor had lived that long.

He looked down at the machine tied to this Tracer. _Could it be…_

"What is the year?"

She looked puzzled at such a banal question, but immediately responded.

"2076."

Now he couldn't disguise his shock. He had expected at least twenty thousand years of disparity, but he hadn't expected her to be from a time before Warp travel. If memory served humans hadn't even left Terra to form permanent colonies on other planets yet.

Forgoing any pretence of civility, he plunged straight into her head. He heard Tracer cry out, but he was already inside. He saw images, feelings, people. Piece by piece he dismantled her mind and examined each fragment carefully, slowly gaining an understanding of the time she lived in. It was only when he tried to penetrate her innermost thoughts that he met resistance. For an unsanctioned psyker she was powerful, but he had learned everything he had needed and as quickly as he had come in he left.

Except something was blocking him. Try as he might he couldn't leave from the way he had entered. Quickly he understood what was happening; in his arrogance he hadn't thought that she might pull the same trick on him. Her method was crude, barely as efficient as his had been, but inexorably she was forcing her way through his barriers, and that she was learning about his time too. He ran in circles, probing every wall her mind had erected, desperate for a way out. He found one, but only after she had gleaned as much information from him as he did from her. He had never faced such a challenge before. It had been… _Exhilarating._

When his mortal eyes snapped open again, he saw a halo of warp energy surrounding Tracer, so bright he could almost touch it. It was a beacon.

As soon as it was there it began dying down, back down to the level he had first saw it at.

He considered her. In her time, she had an accident in an ancient form of air travel made to travel through time, which granted her it's powers.

 _What if it's not time,_ he thought. _What if what I just witnessed was the earliest form of Warp travel?_

If his belief was correct, then before his eyes was the first human psyker in history, excluding the Emperor of course, mutated by her brief entry into Warp space. He knew that at that time the Warp had been calmer than in recent history, so it wasn't inconceivable that she'd have escaped the notice of the daemons. She still needed discipline in order to fully master her powers, the 'anchor' was proof of that, but what power!

Gorian realised that the Relictors' mission on this planet had just gotten even more complicated, complicated beyond his wildest dreams. He dearly wished Inquisitor Valeria was here to answer some questions.

Thirty-eight thousand years?

No matter how many times she tried to turn it around in her head, she couldn't make the number seem any smaller. Had it really happened

Thirty-eight _thousand years_?

And the Warp… What was that? Was it Hell? Was it another dimension? Were the four gods she saw the cause of all this chaos? And what was a psyker? Was she one too?

T _hirty-eight_ thousand years?

Although she couldn't get any specifics, she saw what was happening in this time. It had devolved into a bloody conflict that spanned the entire galaxy. Human fought alien, saint fought daemon, brother killed brother. Entire worlds had become factories to fuel conflicts in other solar systems, while their populations were thrown into meat grinders in hope that it would clog up with their bodies. All the while these Space Marines walked battled against all kinds of enemies, both within and without, in a hopeless struggle to keep the last light of human civilisation from guttering out.

There was only war.

 _Thirty-eight thousand years!_


	2. Chapter 2

Boss Warkraka was bored. Utterly, utterly bored.

Since he had taken his clan of orks off of the last place he had wrecked he hadn't had the opportunity to get into a proper fight. There were the intermittent scuffles that broke out when the Boyz got too rowdy, and that one time when that great big spikey thing burst out of Zogoth's brain, that was a laugh while it lasted, and then there was that room one of the Meks opened that had those purple four-armed bugs in them, but recently nothing fun had happened.

Warkraka turned away from the porthole and stomped towards Gribits. On the way he purposefully stepped on one of the Mekboy's grots, crushing it to a pulp, but it just wasn't the same.

Gribits was standing at the kontrol-plank that was supposed to control the Rok, occasionally pulling levers and mashing various red-coloured buttons. Warkraka glowered at it. He didn't trust such fancy technology, much preferring the single huge red button that was traditional for most ork spacecraft, but Gribits seemed to know what to do with it, steering them to worlds full with life for the boss to jump up and down on in his iron shod boots. This particular journey however was testing Warkraka's patience. If they spent any longer in the Warp the boss might decide to fling Gribits out of the nearest airlock, along with his kontrol-plank.

"'Ow much longa left, Mistah Gribits?" he growled through fangs longer than a human forearm.

"Not much longa boss. Nearly dere, boss." The Mekboy replied. Warkraka grunted. Gribits had given the same answer for the last hour or so. He was going to have to think of another excuse before Warkraka was going to get nasty. Maybe involving bad mushrooms, a small squig and Gribits' ar-

Suddenly they left the Warp and a planet presented itself to them. To the boss's eyes, it was beautiful. Even from this distance he could see other ships in orbit, much too symmetrical and organised to be orks. Flashes erupted on the planet, clear indicators of some kind of high-ordinance artillery. He clapped Gribits on the shoulder, nearly breaking the smaller ork's back.

"You dun good, Mistah Gribits. Now get da Boyz on da horn. Wez got sum krumpin' ta do."

He grinned at the dust-coloured ball of rock before him.

"Time ta show dem what happens when dey start without uz."

Before Gorian could say anything his vox emitted a thin buzz. He put on his helmet and activated the receiver.

"This is Brother-Librarian Gorian, receiving."

From the other end Captain Borealar's voice hissed out through the static.

"This is Brother Borealar, all Battle-Brothers must retreat back to Headquarters, I repeat, retreat back to Headquarters. An ork Rok has appeared in orbit and is plummeting down towards Freudor IV. One shard is going to land-"

Just then an earthquake rumbled through the ground, nearly throwing him off his balance. On the other hand, Tracer was thrown up in the air and landed with a thump.

"Has landed near our position. Retreat to Headquarters to repel the invaders. Emperor protect."

And with that the transmission ended. Gorian offered up a hand to Tracer and pulled her up. She looked at him with tired eyes.

"Warn me next time you're going to do that, love, ok?"

Another, much smaller tremor rumbled underneath. This time Gorian easily stayed on his feet, but had to hold Tracer's arm to keep her upright. When it passed he let go of her arm and made for the exit with the time traveller in tow.

"What was that?"

"Orks. They have just landed bits of their spacecraft onto the surface, and one of them touched down near us."

He strode through the corridors of the bombed-out ruins, heading for the ramshackle command centre Borealar had erected. Tracer had to jog to keep up with him.

"Can we talk with them?"

"These are creatures whose idea of diplomatic relationships is to bellow threats before trying to kill their enemy. There can be no peace with these xenos."

She fell silent for a few seconds, digesting this new information.

"This really is a messed up future."

Gorian didn't bother to reply. Probably because he wasn't bothered by it, she thought. He lived for this. She, on the other hand, could barely stomach it. In her time, she had had to fight humans, occasionally very fanatical humans, but she could understand their motives, and at least they preferred peace to war. In this time, war was the norm. The knowledge she had somehow managed to pull from this 'Librarian' began to become clearer in her head, and she was presented with entire worlds given over to the production of weapons, soldiers to be fed into a meat grinder, or food for troops lightyears away, and the equivalent of one hundred Talon cells on every one. Every civilian lived with the knowledge that their world could be attacked at any moment by the worst this galaxy had to offer. She didn't know which scared her, the endless conflict or the uncaring mindset everyone had towards it.

She searched the new 'memories' for any mention of orks. After a few seconds she found some pieces of knowledge; a race compromising of trillions upon billions of battle-hungry Neanderthals whose idea of classy art was the spray of blood on their axes.

As soon as she could she would leave. All she had to do was survive until her anchor was fully charged. Which might be impossible in and of itself. Right now the safest place was near these Space Marines; at the very least they wouldn't idly kill her. Probably.

They entered a room. The grey Space Marine, Borealar her memories told her, was standing in the middle of it, scrutinising the monitors erected in front of him, while around him several other marines prepared their weapons. When he heard their footsteps he turned towards them and frowned at her.

"What have you found out, Gorian? We have thirty minutes before the orks arrive, and I wish to know if we have a traitor here."

The blue space marine motioned her to stay where she was before striding towards his commander. What they were talking about she couldn't tell, but there was a sense of urgency in Gorian's voice.

While they were talking she noticed another space marine approach her. His armour was more ornate than the others, his faceplate stylized to look like a double headed eagle spreading its wings and the arms, legs and breastplate were adorned with writing too small to make out. On his right shoulder pad was written _Oculis_. The only weapon he bore was a sword he kept buckled to his belt. He walked up to her and stared down at her, not moving a centimetre. Eventually she tried to break the silence.

"I don't think we've introduced each other. My name's Tracer."

On the edge of her hearing, from no particular direction, she heard a whisper.

 _Silvana…_

"That's a nice name. Would you mind raising your voice a bit, I can't hear you that clearly. Sorry."

No answer. Had she said something wrong? Suddenly she felt bad. Should she apologise again?

Thankfully Gorian had finished his talk with Borealar and was motioning for her to join them. Silvana followed. When they arrived Gorian glanced enquiringly at her companion.

"Brother Caledonir? Have you returned to us?"

It took a few seconds for Tracer to realize that he was talking to Silvana. Before she could say anything Gorian shook his head sadly and turned to her again.

"Ever since our chapter was ousted from our home and our greatest artefacts pillaged by the Inquisition Brother Caledonir has never been quite there. As Chapter Champion it was his duty to safeguard the sanctity of our reliquary, and the loss of so many relics at once has hit him hard."

Silvana stood there in silence, his hand resting on his blade. Borealar spoke instead.

"You are to report to the armoury to be armed by Brother Narlneus. From there you are to report to the western barricade where you shall provide overwatch for the main defensive force alongside Brother Varneus."

Tracer knew better than to argue. She got the feeling that most space marines needed only the smallest 'proof' that you were an enemy of the Imperium before killing you. Instead she waited patiently while he gave her directions.

When she left the command centre with Caledonir in tow Gorian turned to his captain.

"Why are you putting her on the front lines? If my suspicion is correct then it is essential to keep her alive."

Normally he trusted his Brother captain, indeed on more than one occasion he had followed him into the fires of hell itself, but now he didn't see the logic behind this decision. Had Borealar lost his senses?

"Brother, I don't trust her. What is she had been planted with that information to divert us from our true mission?"

He raised a hand to still Gorian's words.

"Even if Valeria was true to her word, there are elements within the Inquisition that have resources and reasons enough to plant this decoy amongst us. And we both now the corrupting power of Chaos knows few bounds. The Archenemy is a wily opponent, as we both know from past experience."

Borealar smiled to take the bite out of his words. Gorian was reminded that the captain had the entire weight of the chapter on his shoulders; should he and his band of loyalists fail in their mission then the Relictors will forever be struck from the list of the Imperium's forces and condemned to die at the hands of their former allies. He didn't have time to pursue half-true rumours. Gorian bowed his head in shame. How could he have been so blind? He silently thanked the Emperor for Borealar's patience.

"Caledonir seems to like her though. She will have ample protection from him if he's half the fighter he once was."

He laughed out loud, the first sound of mirth he had uttered since the Relictor's fall from grace.

Fifteen minutes later she found herself crouching next to Varneus alongside Silvana (or more properly Caledonir). She had something called a 'hellgun' in her hands, as well as a chainsword and a bolt pistol attached to her belt. Normally she eschewed armour, preferring the mobility that her anchor could give her, but right now she was denied that luxury, so instead she wore 'carapace' armour that only had a few bloodstains from its previous owner and a heavy backpack where the cables attached to her gun led to. Loath though the Relictors, as they called themselves, were to admit it, they had scavenged these weapons from the corpses of dead Imperial soldiers. Apparently they had been Excommunicated from the Imperium for using weapons of the 'archenemy', and so were reduced to fighting with whatever they could find. So not only was the Imperium a fascist war-torn dictatorship, it was a theocracy too. One that she was expected to fight for now. She remembered Borealar's way of phrasing it:

"It is your duty and privilege as a citizen of the Imperium to fight and die for it. If you are not a citizen, then you are traitor, and shall be dealt accordingly."

She wondered what will happen to her after the fight. Should she stay with the dubious safety of the Relictors, hoping that she can last long enough to be able to rewind back to the twenty-first century, or should she try to run away? If she went for the latter option she couldn't guarantee outrunning the space marines for long, and she was at risk of falling prey to the other things that stalked this ruined world. She had been told by Varneus that this world, Freudor IV, was torn in half by a Chaos uprising, and that several regiments of the Imperial Guard had been tasked with wiping it out with extreme prejudice. He wasn't lying either; even with her lesser senses she could hear the boom of artillery in the distance. She couldn't run there either; chances are that she'll be mistaken for a traitor or a deserter and executed on the spot.

Regardless she couldn't make that decision now. She would first have to survive that battle, and with that knowledge in mind she looked over the barricade, searching for an enemy. It was strange to be in this position again; in all her time in Overwatch she had forgotten what it was like to be a soldier, instead embracing the role of global peace keeper. During that time, she had never killed anyone; either they had been too easy to be a challenge and so were taken in alive or they were too difficult to beat and lived another day. Now she was expected to kill enemies instead of arresting them; certainly it was something she had done before, indeed her claim to being an ace pilot was not simply because of her skill in a fighter but her fighting capabilities on the ground, but that life felt so distant to her that it might have been a different person altogether; Lena Oxton, that crazy bastard who once survived for five days behind enemy lines before killing a small enemy patrol and stealing their dune buggy, not Tracer, who regularly eschewed lethal weapons in favour of beating someone unconscious.

If she had been presented with someone like Reaper or Road Hog, could she kill them?

Could she kill Widowmaker?

She shuddered, not wishing to think about it any further. Her helmet wasn't as technologically advanced as those sported by her temporary comrades, but it did come with a radar on the upper right hand corner of her visor that marked the positions of allies, as well as any heat signatures or moving objects marked by fellow soldiers. On it she could see the green pips marking out the space marines, seventeen in all, as well as a huge mass of red pips that surged towards them, of which she had lost count after fifty. By her estimate they were roughly a kilometre away, and yet already she could hear the crack of sniper rifles wielded by the two sole Scout Marines. They were more lightly armoured than their battle-brother counterparts, but their accuracy was amazing. The terrain around them was flat, demolished by the Relictors to rob the enemy of the advantage of cover in case of attack, but the dust thrown up by the ork 'landing' was obscuring their vision.

 _750 metres._

Now she could hear the heavy weapon open up. Although the Relictors hadn't managed to save their heavy equipment when their fortress had been attacked, they had managed to save one suit of Terminator armour. When she had first seen it she had mistaken it for Reinhardt, it was that tall. In one hand it carried a monstrously huge rotary weapon, and in the other was a hammer that crackled with potent energy. The other space marines treated it reverence, refusing to let what they perceived as a valuable relic be put into any sort of unnecessary danger. Personally she would have preferred to put it in front of her where all the danger was.

 _600 metres._

Varneus opened up with his bolter, firing in short staccatos of at most three rounds. Even with the helmet on Tracer winced as the sound of the gun firing shot pain into her skull, and she silently cursed him for hitting her with such force.

Caledonir or Silvana stood next to her, not saying a word. He did not have a ranged weapon, but just rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. Absent-mindedly she wondered why he sported such an archaic weapon. She knew for certain that she preferred the feel of the hellgun in her hand than the chainsword. When she had been given it she had tried a few swings with it; it felt heavy and cumbersome, and its vibrations had sent jolts up her arm, reducing any control she had over it. It had weight behind it though, and she did not envy anyone who would be caught by its rotating teeth, but to her it felt like an uncivilized weapon, something used by a barbarian rather than a true soldier.

 _450 metres._

She could see shapes in the fog. They were running towards her, stooped shapes that corresponded with the markers on her radar. She sighted down her gun and began firing. At first her aim was terrible, her shots flaring wildly into the dust storm, but soon she felt the old reflexes coming back, and quickly she saw one figure drop.

 _300 metres._

Now she could see the orks clearly. They were stooped creatures, their tusked heads jutting out directly in front of them. In their claws the clutched crude axes and rudimentary firearms. Their skin was entirely green. Most horrifying of all she could have sworn that they had cockney accents just like her, except more guttural and threatening.

 _0 metres._

Out of the sky dropped several orks, flame belching from their backs. Before they were upon her she saw that they had rockets strapped to their backs, crude contraptions that she wouldn't use even as a weapon without the fear of it turning on her.

Of the twelve orks that landed near her, three crashed straight into the ground, one of them several metres away from them. Varneus shot one down, before being beset by two at the same time. Five attacked Caledonir, and the last one dropped directly in front of her, bellowing its guttural challenge. It took a swipe at her with its maul, throwing her off her feet. Her hellgun skittered away from her grasp, leaving her defenceless. Desperately she grasped for her pistol, and by chance grabbed the chainsword instead. Without bothering to press the activation stud, she pushed herself to back upright and took a swing at her opponent, forcing him back a few steps. While she had time she turned on the chainsword and was rewarded by a snarl of its chugging motor, not unlike some wolf or tiger.

This time when the ork charged her she sidestepped it. With its back exposed she slashed downwards at a patch of unprotected skin but missed, instead tracing a scar on its shoulder plate. Enraged, the ork turned around and threw a punch at her with its other hand. It hit her on the hip, pivoting her in place with its force. She stumbled backwards, madly waving her arms to regain her balance, when the ork attacked her again. She lunged forwards, hoping to catch her opponent in the chest with her weapon. This time her weapon hit the ork's flank, tearing a chunk of it clean off. Howling, it hopped away from her, giving her enough time to recover and pursue it. Her next blow chopped its arm clean off.

The next disembowelled it.

She left the sword juddering in its flesh for a few seconds while the ork grunted its last death-squeals before trying to pulling it out. The suction of the flesh had trapped it in the body, but a few hard tugs tore the chainsword out. It was only then that she realised her hand wasn't shaking. She had just taken a life, something that she hadn't done in over a year, and yet she felt fine about it. With a pang of guilt, she realised that she even felt proud that she hadn't been shaken.

 _Still got the skill_ , she thought without meaning to.

She turned to check on her comrades. Varneus had dealt with his attackers at the cost of a scar on his breastplate, and Caledonir hadn't even had his paint scratched. The body parts of his erstwhile attackers dotted the scenery around him, and with a start she saw his sword. It was made of black metal, with runes made of fire etched along its long blade. Was it smoking?

A war cry made her look back towards the horde again. It was too close for her to try to recover her hellgun, so instead she drew her pistol and fired it in her left hand, her chainsword held ready in her right hand. The recoil of the gun felt almost painful, and the horde of orks looked dangerously close, but her blood was singing with the drums of battle, and she felt a primal joy she hadn't experienced in a long time.

Her last thought before the adrenaline kicked in was _let's hope this doesn't go wrong._


	3. Interlude

_I run down these traitorous corridors, the blaring of the alarms churning my stomach._

 _This was not how we were supposed to die._

 _I am alone, for now. My battle-brothers trade blows with the enemy in distant rooms. They fight fiercely, protesting their innocence even as their sacred blood spills upon the ground._

 _How did it come to this?_

 _I take turn, pounding my way through a battle. Here, a dozen mortals deem fit to block my path._

" _Halt!", shouts their sergeant._

 _I ignore him. I draw my blade and wade through them like so much soft fog. They cannot stop me. They do not know the extent of our burden, what we do to protect them in the dark. Nor must they ever know. They are no match for me. Their bravery sours into cowardice, until the last one begs for mercy. And I grant it, Emperor forgive me._

 _Another turn, and the blood hanging guilty from my blade splatters on the wall beside me. I do this for them, I recite in my head, but it rings hollow. I do it for our Father._

 _I am but a few feet from the Reliquary. Sergeant Bornious is holding off the enemy, his bolter shells booming down the juncture to snatch lives away. Seeing me, he does not speak, but merely nods. Rushing forward, he blocks the corridor with his huge body, and as I dart through the door I hear the resounding thud of a brother falling._

 _There is a word that mortals use, reserved for the time when the world falls around you and leaves you vulnerable, takes away from you everything that you cherish. As an Angel of Death, I thought I would never use it._

 _That word is grief._

 _As I make my way into the Reliquary, I find that it is already ransacked. I knew that this would have already happened long before I set a foot in here._

 _Grief._

 _A sound behind me. I turn, and before me stands a figure identical to me. He seems as surprised to see me as I him, but strikes with his polearm with blinding speed. It crashes against my sword, splintering my beloved into a thousand fragments._

 _I thrust my hand backwards, and I grasp the last weapon that is left to me. Only then do I notice who is trying to kill me._

 _A Grey Knight._

 _Son of the Emperor._

 _Brother._

 _Lightning coruscates from his hand. Whispering a prayer for forgiveness, I raise my new sword and swing it with all my strength._

 _She wakes._


End file.
